


Foie Gras

by Souja



Series: Something about miles and shoes [1]
Category: BIRDMEN - 田辺イエロウ | Tanabe Yellow, Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Basically, But is it really?, Character-centric, Gen, General, Rei gets the short end of the stick unfortunately, Suspence, What does [trait] look like to [character from a different canon]?, Writing practice, but I also really love this again, character interacts with a canon that isn't their own, my goodness I'm tired, perspective practice, srry bb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-21 12:38:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souja/pseuds/Souja
Summary: Tim's come to associate Gala's with a certain breed of trouble. Tokyo, unfortunately, doesn't seem to be an exception.





	Foie Gras

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello!! I don't usually write authors notes but this one needs a bit of explanation. 
> 
> The idea is basically: what does a blackout look like to a character that isn't in the know? For those wondering, a blackout is a beast made from ya psyche that tries to kill you, but can only be seen by folks who are birdmen. 
> 
> That's probs as much as you need to know from the birdmen side of things. 
> 
> In terms of timeline, think after Bruce returns from the thousand deaths. For Birdmen, sometime after Karasuma's awakening but before the battle with Buddha-psyche

. **Foie** **Gras.**

**\--**

_It's not a real party without shenanigans running amok, is it?_

**\--**

 

His hair was impeccable, professionally tiptoeing the border of messy. Everything on his outfit was an authentic Pennyworth, down to the stun-tacks mascarading as buttons. And though he wished to be anywhere but  _here_ , a too-bright ballroom in Tokyo where a thousand faces burned into his retina, his pretty business smile betrayed exactly none of that. No, Tim bowed and _'how do you do'_ d like a champ.

Tim knew better than to feel at ease, so though he accepted the compliments and schmoozed like it was breathing, never once did he cease paying attention to the Bluetooth buzzing in his ear. The setting was too familiar despite Gotham being miles away; crowds, pretty halls, and bright lights always seemed to orient towards nefarious schemes. All he needed, now, was to unmask the villain of the day.

Even so, the evening hadn’t started with terror.

In fact it began with dancing and a golden, crystal, palace. The kind of lovely that drew attention in swarms, furthered by a collection of art and the dropped names of wealthy sponsors. A thousand bodies crammed into it, dressed in pearls and other priceless things. A hundred more, in black and white uniform, served drinks and watched windows.

It _was_ lovely, he'd say it again. But midnight tiptoed closer and too many of the guests in attendance dug graves in their specially-cobbled shoes. So he kept vigilant, waiting for the worst to happen.

...  

  
Tim wondered idly if this counted as trespassing.

Barricades set up for the event had been (easily) passed and a number of locked doors were now open, but he was a guest, right? And nothing in the invite nor the tours had specified _not_  to venture to the lower levels of the Sagisawa's Tower. 

Fixtures below the uppermost floor betrayed only the slightest of light, so the expanse of hallways was bathed in dark olive tones. Although there was an appalling absence of crannies and nooks in the architecture (perish the thought that purposefully-obscured, dark corners be _optional_ outside of Gotham), he appreciated the shift from the blinding chandeliers.

  
The fourth level seemed purposed only for business; most doors were locked, many he’d passed during the afternoon’s meetings. The fans and radiators maintained a quiet buzz, low and disarming. Despite this a diligent unease continued to whittle at his nerves. A nagging feeling crept along with him even as he traversed the long, open hallway to the more private lounge areas.

  
He had to thank Bruce for training the anxiety that coursed through his veins, that sharpened his senses till they were prone and watching, waiting. It was how he saw the body around the corner before he’d even rounded the turn, narrowly avoided five-foot-something of wry bones and fabric barreling straight down the supposed-to-be empty halls.

  
He recognized the curls before the nose, then registered the previously obscured eyes. The glasses were gone but it was very much still the person from the elevator ride up. “Oh!” came the matching voice, pitched high by surprise, “I didn’t expect anyone else here, I’m sorry.”

  
Which was a sentiment Tim silently echoed. The elevators had been programmed to shuttle only to designated floors: the ballroom on the uppermost floor, the entry at the lowest level, and the lounge on floor three. But there stood the son of their host, the living brother, Rei Sagisawa, who'd successfully ghosted the majority of the evening--had done so for much of the last year, actually.

  
Tim allowed himself a look of shock. “Hi! Sorry,” his voice kept a tolerable frantic and pretended to stutter over his words, “I was just looking around. Needed some extra space, you know?” As Tim Drake-Wayne, he was relatively new to the Gala spotlight, especially to be invited as a _guest_ and not a begrudging plus-one. His civilian acting was getting better--

  
\--Which was weird to think about. When had _that_ switch happened?

  
For now, the curly-haired heir mirrored his grin, standing all too naturally for someone who’d been interrupted in a _seemingly abandoned_ area. The citylight from the wide-pane window bathed the room in a light blue glow, disturbingly serene. The feeling again gnawed at the hairs of his neck, drawing his attention till all else seemed scarce. 

  
“Yeah, I understand,” the heir hummed, tossing loose curls over his shoulder, “It gets a little much sometimes.”

  
Tim nodded emphatically, the feeling not entirely lost on him though he doubted they shared the same meaning of ‘much’. Probably a few less stab wounds in the young Sagisawa’s definition. “I’m Tim, by the way,” and as he stretched out his hand he could already hear Alfred’s morose commentary on his manners thrumming in the back of his head, “Tim Drake-Wayne.”

  
The fingers that closed around his were icy, and he was given one firm shake before the other said, “Rei Sagisawa. Rei.”

A pause settled between them. The heir spared him a smile, a beautiful thing that showed all his teeth and pinched his cheeks. Tim realised he was staring a half-second after he’d been at it too long and coughed, looking instead at the antique furniture as he returned his hand to his pocket.

  
“Heading back to the party?” he ventured, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He watched the way thin lips quirked downwards around the word ‘no’. Fingers twitched slightly at his sides--a tension mirrored by the clench of his jaw. The rise of his shoulders was defensive. He was waiting for something.

 _There_ it was. Tim feigned the appropriate surprise as a voice in his head chimed, ' _here we go again.'_

“You’re just _staying_ _here_?” he asked instead, faking aghast as though suspicion hadn’t snaked its way to the trenches of his mind. Even Sagisawa Senior's hands weren't completely clean, he knew, and he'd met younger masterminds before.

  
Laughing lightly, in a way that made his hair shake, the heir stepped aside and gestured to the furniture strewn about the room. “I was just leaving,” he said, his voice an airy thing.

  
Which just might’ve been more believable if he hadn’t collapsed immediately thereafter.

  
..

  
People made it so hard to be trusted.

In Gotham, “I’m okay” meant anything from, 'I spilled my coffee and my day’s been a wreck,' to, 'I’m in serious trouble with my family slash the mafia/gang/crime boss of the week and I am anything but fine thanks for asking,' to, 'I’m literally dying but I don’t want those to be my last words. Call Batman please?'. Rarely (read; seemingly never) were the words the actual truth.

  
His handy-dandy copy of _Reading Between the Lines for Dummies and Gothamites_ indicated that when people doubled over in dark rooms, it was advisable to stay until they recovered. Well.  _In_ -advisable, by the Gothamite’s impression.

  
Contributions from the Dummies portion listed possible ailments and their respective treatments. The Gothamite one snarked they’d be dead before dawn, but instructed on how to make a gas mask out of a shoe and t-shirt, along with which fake breaker boxes actually housed antidotes for the usual suspects.

  
Tim found on occasion that he was likely a blend of the two.

  
His reflexes, wired by burning apprehension, had him at the heir’s side when his knees had first began to buckle. His mind worked already trying to detect the cause--there didn’t seem to be any outside influence. No blood spots or punctures that he could tell, though between the layers of Rei’s hood he mightn’t be able to spot a thin dart. His eyes trained on the huddled form with cool appraisal. _“I’m fine,”_ he’d said, _“I’m just leaving.”_ Rei was an option B kind of person, it seemed. Maybe a preventable option C.

  
A nail of regret scraped at his stomach in tandem with an offhanded ‘ _about time’_. He banished both for a time when he wasn't quite so occupied. His attention returned to the collapsed heir, all sources pointing to some kind of seizure. But Tim paused. 

He was speaking. 

The heir remained hunched slightly forward in the shade between ottomans. Hair fell about his face, obscuring it with a tangle of tresses, but even so trembling lips moulded around words unvoiced. Terribly slight things, small enough to be swallowed by the dark. 'It’s here,' they whimpered in the deafening silence of the empty office, 'It’s _here_.'

  
Chills grazed the back of his neck and Tim felt icy pinpricks burn across his skin despite the heavy fabric of his blazer. Paranoia giggled from the darker crevices of the room, shadows shaping into fiends. The feeling gnawed at his nerves with renewed teeth. _Who is?_ he thought, his mind alert.

  
Tim rubbed Rei’s arm, said his name like summoning storms. If they were being targeted then they needed to _move_. Escape would be easier if the heir was at least half lucid; the deadweight and restricted access --because the elevators wouldn't  _run_  where there shouldn't have been _people_ \-- boded ill for scaling the stairs if he needed fend off a repeat-attacker.

  
It took three calls for light eyes to snap on him and away from the glass window. Meanwhile, his mind dovetailed between keeping watch of their surroundings and the symptoms of the trembling form in his arms; pupils were dilated to saucers, a thin perspiration sheened in blue on his skin.

  
Tim righted them by using a red ottoman as leverage. Rei continued to stare forward, almost non-responsive save for a slowly growing scowl.

  
“Hey, no,” Tim tapped a fervent beat into Rei’s knee, his mind churning, _What’s here? Who is it?_ The symptoms began to overlap and the Gothamite part chirped a cheery forecast of probable demise, “Sagisawa? _Rei_?”

  
Shivers shook the boy, rolling things that seemed to jolt his senses with the fervour of an electric shock. A bony elbow crashed into Tim’s sternum as Rei rose, and he coughed, feeling as though he’d been biffed by a benign sledgehammer.

The young Sagisawa paused right after, staring blankly at Tim as the air fought its way back into his lungs. Then he blinked, suddenly alert. "Tim! Tim, are you okay? What's wrong?" A hand crested on Tim's shoulder while the other hovered with anxious frost. 

"I--"  _hack_ , "Should be asking you that. Are you alright?"

A puzzled look. “Me? I’m fine.”

The heir responded as though he hadn’t been fetal minutes earlier, but his smile was a faltering reflection. Tim sat up and the heir shuffled backwards, putting distance between them. One hand tensed into a ball while the other pried into the fabric of his coat. Tim frowned, eyeing the ottoman they'd used as leverage, the space they'd occupied obvious among the more organised furniture. "You fell." He said point blank. 

"I did?" He asked, voice rising just a pitch as his eyebrows furrowed. A thoughtful second passed. Rei's lips quirked into a mortified grimace. His face promptly buried itself in his hands. To himself, he whispered, _“Damn me, I knew I shoulda taken them before dinner_." Tim took the hollow grating that came afterwards as an impersonation of a laugh, but commended his rebound. To him, the boy said, "It's--I'm fine, don't worry about it, just forget it happened, alright?" 

  
The advice was promptly ignored as Tim regarded the memory of the slight tremble, the frozen fear in his eyes. The difference between _that_ and the bashful, forgetful act was astounding, almost nauseating. “Is something wrong?” he asked, risking a short half-step forward.  _Tell the truth_ , he wanted to add,  _skip the preamble and just spit it out._  

   
Apparently Rei was not telepathic. The heir shook his head, no, his lips pursed into a thin line in absence of the hand-shield. Now his eyes made trails along the Tokyo nightlights while he inched toward the slightly ajar door. “I’m _fine_ ,” came the laughing response, “Just a little slip-up on my part. I'll get them now and I'll be good to go.”

An angry pain simmered just below his sternum, and Tim blinked to keep focus. He frowned, faintly recalling a silent heralding, but the words were mottled to nonsense. He asked, “Are you sure?” but the question dissolved into the dark. Caution kept him out of sight as he rose from the carpet to look the heir in the eye, a task difficult when Rei wandered between the walls, the floors, then finally the window. Quieter, his head swimming, he asked, “Can I call someone?”

Rei paused a moment, looking entirely sober. His eyebrows arched slightly, his features tinged with a light blue. The light must've played tricks, because the heirs brown eyes seemed almost amber. "Nothing happened, Tim." 

"But...?"

"There's nothing wrong. Don't worry about it." 

_Yes there was yesthere was yestherewas--_

_blank._

He shook his head, his smile absolutely radiant, then left.

 

..

 

Mansion Tower, though a redundant name, was beautiful. High ceilings, a dizzying view of the cityline. Scenery on each wall and a peaceful ambiance that seemed sewn into the very fibres of the comfy office chairs. Settled between two pillows, the view of the city spanning his gaze, Tim sighed, relaxed.

Tim didn’t know why he let him go, couldn’t place why his instincts had quietened to a hushed murmur when they should’ve commanded him to chase with a hellhounds ferocity. A gentle lull stalled his movements as he scanned the room for traps, found none, and proceeded to stare off into the periwinkle glow of the Tokyo skyline, thinking, _What a lovely night it is_.

  
He almost considered returning to the bustle of the party, maybe finding a quiet corner and watching people as they waltzed the night away. Yeah, maybe, as soon as he’d finished with the thing that tickled at the back of his mind. 

He frowned, drawing a blank as he scraped for some recollection of why he’d ever left the gala. He recalled a chat with Sagisawa, but--

  
The tickle turned into an itch that blanketed his body in an uncomfort of nerves. His skin splintered into a cold static. _Focus, Tim_ , he willed himself, stumbling over a maze of misaligned furniture and a nebula of hazy memories, _Focus!_

  
He tried and pushed and recited, but a blurred wall obscured the conversation, the faces, the gazes--

  
\--the tremors, the false smiles.

  
Tim lurched away from the clear pane as the memories pieced together, the haze lifted from them. _It’s here,_  A phantom of Rei’s voice replayed, a sickening stone in wreaking havoc in the pits of his stomach, _It’s here_.

  
A slurred medley of shock and realisation peeled through him as the itch turned to a burn and his senses to their siren’s anthem. He flew to the door, but the young heir had already vacated the premises, likely left the floor entirely. A nasty word curled at the edge of his tongue as delayed responses kicked in, spurring him forward.

  
 ..

 

The effects of the -- _mind control? Telepathy? Hypnotism?_ \-- lingered longer than he appreciated, pulsing softly at the corners of his consciousness as the splinters of a plan started to come together. His ears remained trained on strategically placed mics throughout the building and a radius around it, cycling through them for things that were...amiss.

  
It seemed all of Tokyo was sleeping and save for a catty waiter or two trading myths, nothing really stood out as odd. That made Rei priority One.

  
Two floors up from where they’d met, and his head continued with a buzz that coaxed him to stop, to slow down. A soothing sort of something tempted him to forget about the infinitesimal heir and his problems. He choked them down with grotesque _after_ images from cases past, and kept on his path.

  
The trail of askew furniture eventually lead to a sea of cubicles and a distraught heir. Tim blended with the natural shadows as he watched the young Sagisawa. Spaces between desks and in hallways were perfect hiding spots, especially for an adversary that made no attempts at concealing themselves.

  
His target was a flittering mess, a chicken with no head. He winced as Rei barrelled into an unsuspecting table, at the hissing noise that he made and the, uh, _graceful_ floundering that followed shortly after.

  
Suspicion said it was a drug--something self administered and likely illegal. He still held fast to that idea, kept it pocketed along with the ten antidotes he had on hand if it proved true. But there was a lucidity to his actions, a fluidity to his panic that might’ve been absent if Rei was truly unaware of what was happening. And that threw him for a loop.

  
Flustered seemed a better word to describe him than scheming, especially as thin hands raked through waved tresses and palmed at his forehead and eyes. He bordered on distressed, like he’d a plan but wasn’t sure if it would pan out. Tim frowned; flustered people made stupid decisions, dangerous decisions, or were fearing the repercussions thereof.

  
All of a sudden his Bluetooth crackled with feedback that sent his ears into angry spasms of tinnitus. Hissing quietly, he tore it out and struggled to silence the screaming gadget before it drew too much attention.

  
_EMP’s_ , he thought, annoyed. God _damn_ them. And it also put him on edge, that someone --someone's?-- would be cutting off communication. He stole a glance over the edge of a messy tabletop, half expecting that the noise had driven his target away. But no, the Sagisawa boy continued to radiate anxiety, unaware or remarkably good at pretending so. 

Two options stood before him, but fearful eyes and a trembling lip choked the first. He shot a glance at a nearby clock, the white face frozen between hours. A number of fail safes and tactics simmered in the back of his head as he assured himself, he had back-up. Bruce would notice. If not he, then Oracle. Now he needed to do his part.

  
He took a breath before dispelling his disguise. “Rei? Hi!”

  
Curls flailed as Rei turned to face him, moving from the desk as though it’d bit him. In the lowlight he seemed like a cat caught doing something he shouldn't, a new thug in the middle of some crime. The ghost of familiarity was one he could've done without and involuntarily the worst of _after_ images came flooding. “What're you doing here?” Tim continued, dismissing the headlines that came to mind and their appropriately macabre front cover splashes.

  
Rei, meanwhile, shifted in demeanor so quickly he almost thought he’d imagined the traces of anything other than airy nonchalance. There was the briefest flicker of relief in the form of relaxed eyebrows, a gentle sigh. But then it vanished, replaced almost instantly with a friendly mask and an open grin, “Tim? I didn’t know you were here!”

  
He took it to mean he was in just the right place. Tim forced a smile against the growing suspicions and feigned bashfulness. “Sorry, I get that a lot.”

  
Usually in the form of, ‘ _It’s a Bat_!’, and often followed by bullets, but nonetheless.

There was a noise of affirmation that sounded too high, as if it’d been pushed through a clogged tube. “Is _that_ so?” Rei hummed, yet his body kept impossibly tense. He lacked the usual quirks of, well, _normal_ people; the slight slouch, the shift of weight between legs that should’ve been there naturally, even with the greater manifestations trained out.

  
Rei’s fingers were curled tight against each other. He was scared, though reluctant to show it. Tim resisted the rising urge to frown.

  
“So, what’re you doing here?” he repeated instead.

  
The young heir blinked and looked as though he was going to respond, but his eyes widened a fraction and his jaw remained agape, “Repeat that, please?” he yipped with irritating pleasantry.

  
“On this floor,” Tim stepped closer to the heir and away from the desks as he clarified, “I got lost but _you_ seemed to know your way around.” It was his building, after all.

Not an interrogation, he reminded himself, slipping back to casual.

Rei didn’t answer for a moment, and Tim realised he was staring through him, his eyes focused on something distant. But when he followed the trail from the corner of his eye, Rei refocused and smiled at him, polite and endearing, “I’m meeting some friends.” He tittered, his words as natural as the air they breathed.

  
“Cool,” Tim replied. _He’s lying,_ he thought. “Mind if I come?”

  
..

 

To his credit, Tim hand't actually expected to be told _no,_ and so maybe a little of the upset shock on his face wasn't entirely faked _._ It had been enough, though, because the other boy crumbled into the slightest of frowns before finally relenting with a lattice of wrinkles between his brows. And hadn't he, there was a planD-2 forming in the back of his mind. A little less concrete this in the same way that water compared to jell-o, but a plan nontheless.

For now he followed the bobbing head. 

Rei minded, he really did, and Tim knew this from years of third-wheeling experience that predated even the Birth of Robin. But Rei was also, apparently, kind to a fault and kept mum about it, indulging him. Or, alternatively, he just didn't want to die alone. 

  
The hypnotism --yes, he was sure of it-- had dissipated some time ago, yet the whispers remained. Time passed in mundane minutes. They pretended to engage in an ineffective cousin of 20 Questions that involved very few real answers. He re-learned Rei was 15, had an enthusiastic love of tea, and was double jointed in his knees and wrist.

  
Rei learned that he’d once tried playing the saxophone, and that Bruce had a deceptively scaled T-Rex at home.

  
When he wasn’t flinching at the wind, Rei spoke with glee and confidence that reminded him of a lot of things that weren’t truly his anymore. Again, he reminded himself that it was his instincts that had brought Bruce back.

  
_Yes_ , he’d seen the other boy fall, and _no_ , he hadn’t imagined the fear in his eyes.

  
Vacation or no, there'd be no casualties tonight.

Rei, meanwhile, prattled absently about this and that and nothing at all, asking question after question and growing more distressed as Tim rematerialised after his every attempt at dodging him. He almost felt a little bad.

At one point he stilled, glaring at the window as though it’d offended him. When Tim mirrored the action while tapping impatiently on the broken Bluetooth in his pocket, the sky just winked back at him with a billion glittery eyes. Nothing malicious, not that he could tell. But the heir stared forward, something hard crawling into his jaw as he gulped.

Tim pressed a hand to his shoulder, and amber eyes flitted to him, then his hand, before the features softened just a smidge.

“Sorry,” Rei said, and he began to pick up speed to a pace much faster than before, “Shouldn’t you be getting back?”

Tim let out a breath of his own as he schooled back worry, “Not until we meet these friends of yours.”

“Thought so,” he laughed, and then, “Your turn, Tim. What do you want to know?”

 

..

 

On average he housed about thirty antidotes, much fewer than he felt comfortable with, but a compromise from a well-meaning mentor. Six at any given time were concentrated joker-gas variants, five more for fear toxins, four a mixture of anti-histamines and serotonin enhancer. The remainder were a seasonal sort, for whatever crime against humanity was trending amongst the Rogues. At present, he’d access to maybe a third of that.

  
Tim struggled with the ornament on his tie, removing a vial as he bypassed security blocks and kept pace with the Sagisawa boy, who insisted on angling him towards the window and away from any of the thousand locked doors.

  
(Warning bells spired in his head the moment he noticed the behaviour. But, damn him, the attempts at falling back to investigate were met with a grip that dragged him forward.)

  
“You should go, I think.” Rei tried again, cresting at the top of a long flight of stairs, his stamina seeming endless for a civilian, “They’re running late -- and wouldn’t Mr. Wayne be looking for you?”

  
Distractions wore cracks into his persona, and through them eked bouts of irritation. Poor boy; another person might have relented, but Tim was so very nosy indeed. A necessary trait in his line of work. It was good that he was talking, aware of his surroundings to some degree, and what did it matter if he hated him afterwards? Gotham was home, not Tokyo.

  
Tim ruled out a number of ailments with a laugh, responding, “Nah, we get to loads more trouble when we’re together.”

  
“What, you, trouble? Incredible.” And he pried open the door to the next set in one quick motion, "I never would have guessed it, you listen so well."

"Sarcastic munch," Tim bit softly, squeezing through the door before it had the chance to block him out--the last time had been once too many.

"Just stating facts." And the pause he took was quick this time, only seeping tension into his shoulders. Then he moved, a blur of curls and black. 

“But no, it’s true --I’m going, _sheesh_ \-- Bruce is an _influence_. I was a good kid once upon a time, y’know.” He channeled his best smile, between steps, “Besides, my trainer doesn’t even work me this hard! It's great!”

A raised eyebrow and squinted glare was all he received for his efforts. 

Too much, then. His smile scaled back to something that looked a little bit sincere. "I'm worried," he tried instead, "Cus you passed out back there?"

The heir might’ve looked touched, might’ve, but he flinched as though a bomb had exploded in his left ear and stared at the wall of windows like they’d betrayed him. Another string of words erupted from his mouth, these ones scarred and bleeding, and he seemed a moment as though he was going to collapse again.

  
His eyes trained on the area, at whatever amalgamation of hell had manifested there that Tim could not see. Tim recognized the signs of hallucinations auditory and visual. His fingers maneuvered for the crystal vail furthest to the right.

  
He’d produced six, six of his ten that boasted even the slightest possibility of working, and was feeding it into a ring-syringe when the heir jolted. He didn’t see him rise but felt his hand, impossibly cool on the fabric of his suit. A light tinker was all that remained of the vial Tim had been fiddling with as the heir _lifted him up_ , away from the apparently traitorous wall. He allowed himself to be led away. Whatever it was that burned at their heels, that tormented other boy, it’d be a folly to stall and let the two collide.

  
Ghosts? Spirits? He hoped not. The ectoplasm-detection kit had been left behind, and Bruce’s kept place in the thick of his belt loops. 

Tim reeled through the remainders as they scaffolded the staircase.

 _Joker gas?_ He stole a look at curls that whipped in front of him. Had the Joker hazarded a New Year’s jaunt to Tokyo, there were much bigger issues at hand. But it lacked his usual motifs; the look of fear in the heir’s eyes would have spread to his cheeks, pulled his lips into a macabre portrait of despondency. There’d be a card somewhere, a terrible, grinning, J, and a painful laughter that would haunt even his darkest nightmares. His bluetooth sputtered pathetically at his attempt to contact Bruce, something in the air rendering it useless still -- which, maybe, he should've been more concerned about.

  
Fear Toxin? No, no. He was still too lucid, even as he tugged on his arm and pulled him up the stairs with an ungodly grip and damned super-strength. Some variation thereupon, then. Tim almost laughed; so much for a business trip. He ignored the part of him that considered this, whatever _this_ was, to be the more favourable option.

  
They moved as though a fire chased them, the plaques signalling their ascent from floors four to six to eight, then finally ten where the gala had been hosted. The next flight would lead them to the helipad atop the building.

  
Tim could make out the noise of the event--the band had been replaced by another, this one lively and playing something with heavy drumfalls. Rei’s breathing hadn’t slowed and Tim’s arm remained ensnared in his vice.

  
Rejects were banished to his pocket and Tim shifted the one in his hand till the red label reflected yellow light. A type of Venom? His mental list confirmed at least three of the symptoms; the super-strength, the shock-induced body cooling, the hallucinations, violent and enshrouding--

  
They stopped running but the music continued to thunder, beat after ornery beat the pieces to a brewing storm. It built around them, bolstered by the trembling of the windows and echoes of lightning reverberating on ivory coloured walls.

Tim forced the liquid into the ring as discreetly as he could, squeezing tightly for the flow to begin.

  
Rei breathed deep before him, hand still firm as the top platform drew nearer. Three doors waited for them. One, he knew, led to the helipad stairs, the other opened to the event hall. The third, in shiny, gold, lettering, said ‘maintenance’.

  
Voice quivering as he spoke, Rei continued to lead him up the stairs. There were just a few left, almost perpendicular to the platform. “You’re going to stay here until it’s safe, alright? And if I don’t come back for you, just go on to the Gala.”

It was enough to jolt Tim out of his thoughts, and just at the same time a cymbal in the other room crashed tremendously. Something sickening that’d lurked the entire evening began to turn his stomach as the scene turned suddenly very familiar. “What about your ‘friends’?” He asked, though he’d a feeling he knew the answer.

Another breath accompanied a pained smile. Not resigned, not yet, but a fraying hope uncomfortably reminiscent of those he’d lost along the way.

“It’s not a thing to concern yourself with.”

And then it disappeared.

Poof, gone.

No. Not tonight. Not when there were things he could do.

His thumb was on the ring before he’d time to think about it.

Anti-venom puffed into the air in a cloud of green.

A pitched yelp and the heir jerked away, hands to his eyes. Tim felt gravity shift at the movement and gasped as the platform began to distance. He fell, and the stairs greeted him with a thud, then another. His shoulder _seethed_ as he tumbled to the base of the flight they’d been on, his ribs and forearms radiating a sympathetic rage.

The tile floor offered a breath of cold he cherished before moving. He shifted his weight from his assaulted shoulder to the _other_ assaulted shoulder and spared a moment in silent relief that it hadn’t dislocated from the way he’d landing; it hadn’t exactly been to Batman Standard. Another pained movement had him righted, staring up the flights at the trembling form of Rei Sagisawa.

  
Amber eyes were pried open, unblinking. Curls shook slightly from side to side and his mouth went through rapid half-revolutions of words.

Tim took the steps slowly, one at a time, careful to remain in Rei’s line of sight. The ramifications of the drug were still unknown, and his deduction had been --regrettably-- shoddy. His voice remained in its lower octaves, “You’re safe,” he promised, gently, while he waited for the tranquilizer to kick in, “nothing will hurt you.”

The live band played loudly, a crescendo rising, faster, _faster_ , to a sudden thundering silence.

Time stilled for just a short eternity.

  
It froze them both, Tim and the heir, turning them to statues stuck on the cusp of marbled panic.

It fashioned glass from ghosts of breath and morphed his heartbeats to terrible, trembling, thunderclaps. Another step, and the world would crash all at once. 

And he knew in his heart, in his mind, that it was not the case, but instead he stayed stationary, eyes fixed upwards, unable to breathe in the face of such palpable frailty. 

They were only a few steps away. 

Another step-- 

Another step--

He risked it.

“You’re. safe.”

And then Rei _screamed_ , a curdled, desperate thing that almost made him freeze once more. It sounded like a siren, resonated deep in his chest. A dam of something stronger broke, and a river of tears fell in fat globs down the heir’s face as he curled inwards, making himself small.

It took a moment to realise that the words pouring from his mouth, the mottled paste of phonemes, were not a prayer to a deity but rather a cry for help -- a sea of 'I can'ts', a mountain of 'I'm sorry's, and his own name spewed in broken gasps. Thin fingers raked at his hair, at his face, and at the exposed skin, as if trying to pull all his extremities inwards. Beaded red lines followed their paths in a garland of self-inflicted tresses.

  
Tim stripped off his vest, and in a movement fluid wrapped it around the heir’s hands, impromptu padding against the scrubbing. A torrent of sound erupted from the ballroom as the world decided to move on.

  
Rei sobbed thickly, somehow silent despite the way his body lurched with every dry heave and shake. He kicked at the floor, pushing away, _away--_

  
And then the windows shattered.

  
..

When he was younger--

  
\--when he was trailing the Batman back in those first days, he loved this moment. The one where the windows exploded into glass showers and Batman swooped in to save the day.

It was a Gothamite thing, probably, because it worked a little like a reverse night-light. A city-wide oddity, to take comfort in the sudden darkening of street corners or rooms when _that symbol_ was the thing to take the place of light. 

So, the glass splintered. Tim shielded them both with his back and the expensive dress shirt he wore, and then he breathed.

  
_Batman_ , he thought, feeling tension in his chest unwind. Bruce had realized something was wrong, had assessed the situation and come after him. Of course. Just like old times.

  
So he turned to greet his hero, and--

  
And--

 

And _They_ , whoever they were, were definitely not Batman.

Black wings were the wrong shape, the helmets boxy and the padding too thin. Four bodies entered the stairwell, the air suddenly chilled by strong beats of wind. Something like dread crawled across his skin as one of them--the one whose wings had shattered the glass-- rose and angled towards him. Towards Rei.  

“These are your friends, Rei?” he watched as they filled the open spaces, felt the crackle of adrenaline as it coursed his veins as he assessed each of them, “Can’t say I fault the fashion sense.”

He shifted to a defensive stance, planting himself between the _imposters_ and the heir.

“ _See, I’m a bit of a Batman fan myself.”_

 

...


End file.
